


Things that don't want to be touched

by queersintherain



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alpha Kara Danvers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Asexual Alex Danvers, Asexual Character, Omega Alex Danvers, Other, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 11:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21035813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queersintherain/pseuds/queersintherain
Summary: Alex doesn’t want Kara to come over. She doesn’t want to talk about it, or explain, or... anything. Maybe it was... maybe she was leading him on. Maybe she didn’t put enough masking agent on.They’re stupid thoughts. Alex hates that she’s having them. She can’t turn them off.She doesn’t grab her phone to tell Kara not to come. It’s right beside her but she can’t make herself reach out.--Alex is assaulted by a visiting lecturer at her lab, and the aftermath.





	Things that don't want to be touched

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a prompt that was supposed to be a list, but led to this instead. Please heed the warnings in the tags and take care of yourself! This is set after the assault but there are flashbacks to it in-text.

She takes a shower when she gets home. She stays in there for half an hour, and then an hour, and every time she tries to get out, the cold makes her think of the fridge, and she can still feel the bruises on her hip—the shower fan drowns out the pant of his voice in her ear.

Barely.

It’s a shitty fan, and she didn’t close the door. All of the windows and mirrors in her apartment are foggy when she’s done, wrapped in her two biggest towels, and her fuzziest sweatpants, the ones that are Kara’s, actually, so they’re too long on her, and the room is foggy too, like nature has come into her apartment, is taking over. Everything looks a little fake, distorted.

She leaves the mirrors. She doesn’t want to see herself right now.

*

There’s a hand on her hip, and she’s staring at the shelf of chemical samples, and he smells like he’s bathed in a vat of overpriced masking agent. His other hand is on her neck, shoving her face against the cold glass of the fridge door, and his cock is hard against her ass, and he says:

You want me to touch you, don’t you?

* 

She throws out her clothes. She dumps everything out of her purse and throws that out too, and then feels guilty and angry with herself about it, because it was a gift, and it’s not like anything _happened_ to it—she fishes it out of the trash, wipes it off.

She feels...

She brings all of the blankets in her apartment to the couch, and spends an hour arranging them, her hands clenching and unclenching on the fabric.

*

She didn’t do anything with her hands. He was behind her. She couldn’t reach anything vital.

She wants to rip the fabric to shreds, and she thinks she should want to do it in an angry way, but she just wants something to do with her hands now.

She crawls inside the blankets instead, somehow exhausted. She hasn’t even done anything today. She left work early.

She chokes off a sob, and then she‘s laughing, even though nothing is funny, and she still feels cold, still feels empty, still feels exposed in the flimsy protection of her nest.

*

Kara is supposed to come over later.

Alex doesn’t want Kara to come over. She doesn’t want to talk about it, or explain, or... anything. Maybe it was... maybe she was leading him on. Maybe she didn’t put enough masking agent on.

They’re stupid thoughts. Alex hates that she’s having them. She can’t turn them off.

She doesn’t grab her phone to tell Kara not to come. It’s right beside her but she can’t make herself reach out.

*

There’s a knock at the door and she can’t move to get it, either. Her body aches, every part of it, like her muscles have been straining against themselves for days, like she’s walked for miles, like she can’t pick herself up. Why can’t she pick herself up? She shouldn’t be tired, she didn’t _move_, she didn’t do anything, _like a fucking idiot_, she—

Alex! Kara’s voice, from the door, and Alex bursts into tears, and there’s Kara’s frantic key in the lock.

*

Please, don’t, she tells Kara, when her hand tries to pull back the blankets. Please, I can’t—

*

Please, she said. Please stop. Like begging would help. (Like a weak omega.) And then she stopped saying anything, because she knew he wouldn’t, and she wanted him to think it was fine, (and that feels awful now, to think about making herself so small), because then maybe he would just... leave after.

*

Okay, Kara says. Alex knows she wants to ask what happened, and she _can’t, she can’t—_

Kara’s nose is alpha sensitive. She can probably smell. Can she smell? Does she think Alex fucked someone at work? Does she think what really happened? Alex doesn’t know which is worse.

What can I do? Kara asks, and Alex has no idea what to tell her.

*

It feels like she’s gone numb, down there—too much heat, too much friction. Her lab coat is bunched up around her waist. Her pants are chafing against her upper thighs. It’s a blunt knife piercing her between them, and her breath stutters around the hand on her throat, condensation on the glass. She reads the same sample label again and again, and he’s wearing a condom. That’s what she’s thinking—she’s so grateful he’s wearing a condom.

And then he starts to swell, and suddenly her heart is about to burst from her chest, animal instinct telling her to _run, run, run_.

*

Kara brings ice cream. Kara turns on _Queer Eye_ on Netflix. Kara puts her hand on the blanket. Alex’s heart stutter-skips at the touch, even muffled, and Kara pulls back immediately. And no, no, _no_. She can’t be afraid of that from Kara.

Alex throws off the blanket, and Kara is all golden hair and wide, wet blue eyes, and strong jaw, and just seeing her makes Alex want to start crying again. Alex is half-wet hair dried wrong, and still wrapped in the towels, and Kara’s mouth falls open when she looks at her. Her scent gets ripe with distress, and Alex reaches out with a trembling hand. This needs to be okay. It needs to. It’s _Kara_.

Kara sobs when Alex touches her face. And then she reaches back, and Alex jerks away.

*

The worst part is the knot. It’s always been the worst part, of sex with alphas. The gradual swelling, the calculation of whether it will cause one of those arguments if she asks him to just _leave it outside_, and then the high-pitched groan as he pushes in before she can decide, the stretch, and then twenty minutes to half an hour of sweat cooling, feeling disgusting and restless and like something subhuman, being pumped full of seed, even when it’s going into a condom instead. Feeling like she’s being _bred_, like she’s just some vessel for a life that will steal her own like a parasite.

_He_ swells, and he laughs, and pushes in, and it’s _big_, and it _hurts_, it feels like something tearing. She’s sweating down her back, her thighs, even in the cold, and there’s the rush of heat inside her, and the scent of the masking agent all around her, and his scratchy lab coat, and his hot breath on her neck.

The worst part is how he starts talking to her about his work. Like this is normal. Something to pass the time. Like this is something he does, asks the junior omega researchers in the labs he’s visiting to show him the samples in the fridge (stupid, she’s so stupid), and then.

The worst part is how she talks back, tries to make her voice rise and fall at the right parts, like this is fine, please don’t hurt her. (More. Again.)

The worst part is the squelch when he finally comes free. How some of it drips on her pants. How she’s going to smell like him all week, no matter how many showers she takes, because of the pheromones.

The worst part is how he hands her the bloated condom, asks her to take care of it, he needs to go back out and mingle.

*

The worst part is Alex crying when Kara touches her, because it feels _wrong_ in the moment, whether it’s her scent or just the touch at all. Just a hand on the side of her face makes Alex feel like she’s going to throw up, and _all she wants is to be held_.

The worst part is how Kara’s pheromones, usually calming, smell strange, too sharp to her now—because he got into her skin, because they smell like alpha, too, and it shouldn’t matter, she’s fucked other alphas and it never affected how Kara smelled to her. Kara is her _sister_, who she _loves_, it shouldn’t matter.

Alex huddles down into her nest, hides her hot face, tries to slow her racing heartbeat, tries to figure out what she’s going to _do_. She told work she was sick. _She has to go back tomorrow_.

She needs to be held. She needs to not be touched. She needs to _g__et a grip_. It was fine. It was just fucking. She’s done it before.

Kara puts a blanket on the coffee table and drags the table closer to the couch, and lies down there, hand out so it’s close to Alex but not touching her, and she says, it’s okay, I’m here. Whatever you need, okay? Just tell me. I love you.

Kara talks. She talks about everything and nothing, about how it felt coming here as a child, about why the sticky buns at Noonan’s are her favorite. She sings Kryptonian lullabies, and then she talks some more, long past when a human’s voice would have gone hoarse.

Alex watches her through eyes blurry with sleep and tears, and carefully touches her face, her shoulder, her hand. Lets Kara wrap her up in her words instead.


End file.
